


Last Call

by issagaymer



Series: Amari's [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-23 06:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13183959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/issagaymer/pseuds/issagaymer
Summary: An encounter when the restaurant is closed.





	Last Call

“Saints preserve us,” Moira O’deirden cursed as she rubbed her temples with one hand and held herself upright with the other against the mahogany bar top. The bottle of Tullamore Dew behind her was nearly empty and her last task before finding her darkest sunglasses was to drain it.

She glanced at her watch 6:15a. An effective tear down after a raucous night at Amaris was no small task and her bar was shining, no tool misplaced, no bottle askew. It would be worth the hangover and the late ride home with the Finance bros on their morning commute. A slight grin of satisfaction spread across her pale face as she ran her fingers through her red quaff, remembering the c-notes in her pocket. Her smug air wasn’t even ruined by the blonde baker coming up stairs from her early morning pastry prep, in fact she found her presence a slight hangover cure

“Good evening, angel” she purred, her lilt more playful than usual as she wiped her hands, slinging a rag over her shoulder. It didn’t grant a smile, but Moira was watching the curve of the lithe woman’s back and smiled anyway.

“Good morning.” She corrected, “and Don’t call me that. “ Angela didn’t even glance at her as she clocked in on the touchscreen at the other end of the bar. “Shouldn’t you be on the train by now?” opposing schedules kept Angela from interacting with her ex thankfully, but these little dalliances as Moira thought of them were becoming more frequent. Neither of them much cared for the other any longer, but 6 am was a neutral zone on either end of their shifts and they endured.

“My bar was a mess after the tech crowd from that conference. Money to burn and all that, took priority over last call” She serruptisously pushed the empty bottle of single malt with the others on display while Angela breezed into the kitchen for some supplies.  
It was eerily quiet in that early morning haze and Moira could hear her rummaging for pans through the swinging doors.

“And when was your last call?” Angela wasn’t blind and she had a long memory. It was the main reason she’d left, she couldn’t keep looking past the empty bottles and broken promises. Her tone was bitter but blunted on the edge of time.  
Moira pushed through the swinging doors, sleeves rolled up and ready to rehash the fight they’d had every night all those years ago. Always ready for a row to get her blood up with Angela.

“Doing a drive by to insult me, then? Awfully brave when the suit isn’t around to protect you.” Her forearms crossed in front of her small chest after loosening the uniform tie and exposing three buttons worth of skin. It wasn’t a threat, referencing Fareeha, just a reminder that they were alone again after Angela had sworn against that.

Angela carried the pans down to her prep station, punctuated by bumping Moira out of her way. “That suit, my wife, will essentially own your bar one day and it’s not an insult if I can smell you sweating Jack Daniels.”

Now, a derisive laugh came from the wispy Irish woman, “If you think I’d drink that American swill, we might as well be strangers!”

“If only,” Angela was annoyed as she tied her apron behind her and began fiddling with her stand mixer. That was meant to hurt, but Moira sensed an old frustration in her voice.

“Right then,” a sarcastic tone of realization in her voice, “Someone didn’t get her hallelujahs in this morning.” Moira knew just what buttons to push to make the blush rise on the blonde woman’s face. “That wife of yours must not be paying her tithes, yeah?” She devilishly walked two fingers up the bakers bare forearm only to have her jerk away more forcefully than she’d anticipated.

“For fucks sake Moira!” was all she could muster while staring daggers through her. “We can’t keep doing this...” her bright blue eyes darted down as she fumbled with a whisk and Moira sighed as she crept behind her, no more protests when she wrapped her arm around the shorter woman’s hip.

“‘Course we can,” her voice dropped to a husky whisper as her fingers found their way to Angela’s waistband. She hesitated, waited for the smaller woman in front of her to turn around and batter her. She took the slight roll of hips against her as a sign to continue. Her lips found a familiar Moan as she kissed the back of her neck, “Why did we ever stop in the first place, angel?”

Her tone was matter of fact as her breath quickened. “Because... I hate-... I hate this...” Angela gripped the edge of the steel counter as Moira’s fingers found what she was looking for.

“Now, now, darling... let’s not say things we clearly don’t mean.” Moira knew the first part was true though, even understood why - for what she’d done to Angela, for what she’d done to herself. Her left hand snaked up Angela’s chest and held her close at the hip with her right forearm. Instead of kneading her breast, Moira planted her idle hand just above Angela’s heart and rocked her closer.

Angela bit her lip and tried stoicism but it wasn’t in her nature. Low moans and rolling hips came from her easily under Moira’s fingers. Her hands remained white knuckled on the counter because she knew if she laid hands on the slim, sinewy body behind her, they’d make a mess of each other and the prep kitchen. Eventually though, her knees buckled and all that kept her upright as she writhed were Moira’s arms tight around her. Such familiarity made her forget herself and she craned her head back to kiss the whisky soaked mouth and run her fingers roughly through the slick red hair of her former lover. Moira was lost in this intimate afterglow and when she came to, abruptly pulled away, straightened her hair and tie, leaving Angela leaning breathlessly against the flour laden counter.

“You’re right... we shouldn’t do this anymore,” her hurried voice was met with silence. Shifting blame was a subtle talent of Moira’s, one Angela was too eager to point out in their past. It was easy to push her away when she remembered what she’d done. She wrung her hands in the bar rag hanging from her shoulder and tossed it hastily into the laundry. She needn’t have the intoxicating reminder of their tryst while she navigated the subway home.

“Good night, angel” she choked out before grabbing her jacket, steeling herself against the cold morning air. She glanced back before walking out the door. It was as if she’d never been there, Angela beating eggs in a large steel bowl without a goodbye. Moira dashed before she could look up and see the tears spilling from her impassive face.

**Author's Note:**

> So... cheating.
> 
> Let's talk about it for a second. I understand that this is a sensitive topic for a lot of people and introducing a difficult element into this story might make some people unhappy. Or not, maybe no one's actually reading this.
> 
> It's terrible. The worst. There are no excuses for it. But it happens... people you would never think have cheated on their partners and hurt them in unspeakable ways with infidelity. Personally, I feel like the characterization of "all cheaters are bad people" is fundamentally childish and reduces a person down to their worst act. In this story, Angela is a good person or at least she tries to be. Moira is not a great person, but she aspires to be something better and constantly fails herself while struggling with alcoholism. When a relationship ends, those feelings don't go away and getting caught in a moment of "what could have been" can be intoxicating. I neither praise or condemn - it just is.


End file.
